


Babatjie

by Anonymous



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Abortion, Also I don't speak a single word of Afrikaans, Blood, Codependency, Gen, I mean you can interpret it however you want, No Incest, POV Third Person Limited, Prequel, Present Tense, but it's not meant to be incest lol, it's vague, please help with translations, sobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 14:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8330722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Left to her own devices, Cynthia would forget to eat, forget to sleep. Forget to take her pill on time.He should have checked with her every night; it was too much responsibility to entrust to a child who accidentally killed her Teddy Ruxpin and set her View-Master projector on fire. But how would she learn to be more careful if there were no consequences?





	

Cynthia is bouncing her leg underneath the sunny, smiling baby advertising brand-name nappies; Dad is sitting under the seascape. Between them sits her purple backpack and his newspaper. The window opposite them is even greyer than reality, thanks to the deep privacy tint.

“Are you nervous?” Dad asks.

“ _Ja._ ”

“It will be fine, _bobotie._ “

“But what if it hurts more than I can take?”

“They’ll give you something for the pain before they start. You’re a strong girl. You’ll be fine.”

“I wish I could be asleep the whole time.”

“The doctor didn’t think it was a good idea. I could never risk losing you, my little pickled herring.”

“Tell me the truth, Dad.” Short turquoise nails pick at the peeling edges of the END APARTHEID bumper sticker on her bag. “Are you disappointed in me?”

“Never.” He lowers the clipboard. “You’re doing the responsible thing, Cynthia. It’s the right choice. Studies are most important right now. The alternative would be unthinkably stupid, especially when you’re starting your PhD at Oxford next year. I’m so proud of you.”

She rubs sleep out of her eyes. Her short little bob is unbrushed, making her look all the more like the creased little girl who lives in his wallet.

"Thanks, but..." She frowns up at him. “That wasn’t what I was talking about.”

“What, then?”

“This whole trouble. Do you think I’m… irresponsible? Or stupid?”

He hides his face back in the clipboard. “I would pummel anyone who said such a thing.”

“That’s not a no, Dad.”

“I know you always do your best. I know it wasn’t recklessness. It’s just… you’re only thirteen.”

“I’m fifteen, Dad. I'll be sixteen next month.”

His eye catches the date at the top of the form, then her date of birth a few lines down. “Oh. Don’t hold it against me _._ I wrote 1972 on a check last week.”

That draws a smile from her.

“When did you last eat?” he asks.

“Before bed.”

“Good girl.” He marks it down and reads the rest of the information. “Do you have enough pads at home?”

“Sure, probably.”

“Sign this.” He scrawls his name and then turns the clipboard over to her.

She finally stops bouncing. “Where do I sign?”

“Here. Where it says ‘patient.’ Just above mine. See it there on the parent line?”

The C and H can barely be made out from her scribbles. She returns the board to him, and he returns it to the receptionist.

And then they wait. Cynthia spends the first half hour staring at the same two pages of her open book, her finger tucked under the next page but never turning to it.

“Cynthia?”

She raises her head, blinking. “Hm?”

“What’s the capital of Greece?”

“Athens.”

“Portugal?”

“Lisbon.”

“Czechoslovakia?”

“Prague.”

He waits for her to realize her mistake, but she says nothing.

“Cynthia?”

“What?”

“Prague is the capital of the Czech Republic,” he reminds her. “It’s not Czechoslovakia anymore.”

“Oh. Right.”

She’s chewing on her thumb again. Dad should have brought MindTrap to keep her mind off things.

"What's on your mind, Cynthia?"

“I’m not Mum, you know.” She sits up straight. “There’s no real risk of me dying under anesthesia. I’m not sick like she was.”

“I know.” He reaches over to pat her knee. “But there’s always a risk. The doctor said it wasn’t necessary, and that’s the end of it.”

A girl staggers past, groggy and groaning. She’s leaning hard on a boy her age, whose keys dangle from the fingers supporting her arm.

“It hurts,” she whines as the boy leans into the glass door. “They didn’t even—”

Her complaints fade as the door whooshes shut behind them.

“I—” Cynthia coughs, unscrews her water bottle lid, takes a tiny swig. “I don’t think I can do this, Dad.”

“No one can force you to.”

“I really think it wouldn’t be so bad as you think. I know you hate the idea, but I still really, really wish...”

“If that’s what you decide to do, I’ll support you,” he says. “I want you to make your own decision about this.”

But he doesn’t mean it, and she knows it. Not after what he said a few minutes ago. She folds forward, forehead on fists and elbows on knees.

“I’ll love you no matter what,” he says, because it’s something he doesn’t have to lie about. “But I really think you’re making the right choice, coming here. Don’t be scared of the pain _.”_

“I’m not. Much. I just have… bad vibes or something from this place. I don’t like it. I feel like a bunch of really bad karma is coming my way for being here.”

“Nonsense.” He leans over, the arm of the chair crushing his ribs, and massages her shoulder. “You’re making a good choice, Cynthia. The universe will understand.”

“I have a university degree, Dad. I'm almost done with my master's degree. I think I could make it work.”

He blows out a deep breath. “You could make ends meet, probably. You’re resourceful and clever. But I know you were born to do tremendous things, Cynthia. I would hate to see you give up all your dreams for something you don’t want nearly as much. Am I wrong?”

She hesitates and then shakes her head.

“You can hurt a little today, or you can hurt a lot later. And not just a physical kind of hurt. But if you hurt a little today, you'll have a real chance to change the world. I know you'll do amazing things.” 

The door opens. “Cynthia?”

She leaps up, like a spring released. Dad rises to go with her, but the nurse stops him.

“No one but the patient in the room. I’m sorry, sir, but it’s for safety and confidentiality reasons. We’ll have her back out here in ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

"I'll be all right," Cynthia says, but she's gone all white. "Watch my backpack for me, Dad."

The door slams shut.

Another father in the waiting room shakes out the sports section as he shoots an empathetic look at Dad. He quirks his mouth to the side, as if to say, _“Isn’t it a shame our daughters are in this mess?”_

Dad’s sits there, fuming, glaring at the newspaper now covering the other man's face. He has half a mind to have a word with that other man. _"Cynthia is a good girl. She's a smart girl._ _She just needs guidance. She’s too kindhearted for her own good. And her head is in the clouds, but only because she's the smartest little girl in the world."_

Left to her own devices, Cynthia would forget to eat, forget to sleep. Forget to take her pill on time.

He should have checked with her every night; it was too much responsibility to entrust to a child who accidentally killed her Teddy Ruxpin and set her View-Master projector on fire. But how would she learn to be more careful if there were no consequences?

There’s a noisy hum, like a generator turning on a few rooms over. Then—

“Stop! I changed my mind!”

There’s an inaudible response. A half sob from Cynthia. And all the while, the machine drones on.

Five minutes pass before the noise dies. Dad’s shoulders relax, and it’s only then that he realizes they were hunched around his ears.

They don’t bring Cynthia out in ten minutes, nor in fifteen. Dad paces from the baby to the seascape and back. He forces himself to recall every worst case scenario mentioned on the paper he just signed. If she has to suffer, then so does he.

Finally, nearly an hour later, a different nurse delivers his wet-faced Cynthia to him, wrapped in pink up to the neck. He takes her in his arms, kissing her head.

"Cynthia," he sighs in relief. “Did something go wrong?”

“The pain was more than she expected, I think, but she did well enough.” The nurse pats Cynthia’s arm. “Obviously, it was a bit late to stop by the time she requested it, so we gave her a bit extra sedation to keep her still, and she quieted right down. She needed a little extra time in recovery.”

“Does she need to take any medicines? For pain, or for infection, or...?”

“Just follow the recovery instructions.” The nurse disappears, leaving them in front of the room full of spectators.

“Let’s go home,” Dad says.

He releases Cynthia to zip her pink sweatshirt, and she wobbles.

Dad realizes the conundrum. “Sit here.” He seats her in her former chair and shoulders her backpack, then lifts her in his arms like a baby.

She cried the last time he carried her from the hospital to the car, too. But she was in her little pink jumper and car seat then. Now she’s in a full-sized pink jumper soaked through with sweat. He buckles her into the car as carefully as that first time, inching over the speed bumps just as slowly.

She crosses her arms over her stomach, occasionally mopping up the tears and snot with her sleeves.

“I’m sorry the pain was so bad." He tucks a piece of golden hair behind her ear. "I didn’t know it would be so bad. We’ll be home in a minute, and I’ll give you some paracetamol.”

She shakes her head.

“Ibuprofen?”

She doesn’t respond. He takes a right turn carefully, his left arm bracing Cynthia to keep her from jostling. She doesn’t acknowledge him.

“What’s the matter?” he finally asks as the car rolls in front of their home.

“What do they do with it?” she asks.

“With what?”

“ _My babatjie_. How will they get rid of it?”

He sits in shock for a moment. Three raindrops plop onto the windshield in succession, and then a light shower coats the glass.

“I think they, er, look at everything to make sure nothing is left inside to make you sick.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know, Cynthia _._ I honestly don’t know. I’ll look it up for you if it’s important.”

“Did they… did they wash her down a drain?” She sobs into the fabric bunched up over her fists. “I read a story, but it was an American magazine… and it was really biased, but I still…”

“No, no. That sounds like a threat to public health. I’m sure they cremate things like that.”

“That’s not natural. I wish I could bury her. I feel all full of bad energy, Dad. I feel... dark.”

“It’s the valium, I think. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”

He comes around to help her out of her seat. She’s steadier this time, though she does slosh through a puddle that soaks her shoes.

Inside, he peels her wet socks off and tucks her into her blanket on the library sofa, her favorite spot in the dusty old house.

“Do you want to talk,  _bobotie?”_

"No."

"Are you hungry?"

“No.”

“You need to eat something before you take any medicine. What are you hungry for?”

“Toast, I guess.”

A moment later, he brings her a plate of buttery, honeyed toast and four ibuprofen. She chugs the tablets with his leftover tea from earlier, then starts on the toast.

“Do you want me to read to you?” Dad asks.

She shakes her head. “Will you find out what I wanted to know?”

That’s his Cynthia. Single-minded and starving for knowledge.

“I will.” He kisses her on her head. “Should I put on a movie while you sleep?”

“ _Ja_ , the usual. Thanks, Dad.”

He blows a healthy cloud of dust off her favorite sickbed movie and pushes it into the VCR. She’s fast asleep before Maurice and Phillipe even set off for the fair. Dad lowers the volume so the snarling wolves don’t wake Cynthia, and then he sets out to find her answer.

There’s no information in the encyclopedias, so he ends up ringing the hospital to explain the situation.

“The products of conception have probably already been incinerated,” snaps the nurse on the other end. “Her mood swings will settle down in a few days.”

He bristles. “It's not as if she's being irrational! It's a reasonable thing to be curious about, especially at her age. I expect even an adult woman would—" 

The nurse hangs up on him. Dad decides it's not worth it to call back and complain.

Cynthia is still asleep when he returns to the library. Belle spins around her own, much larger library on the screen. Cynthia’s sweatpants have been wadded up and pitched across the room, and she’s completely cocooned in her favorite purple blanket. Dad turns the light off and lets her sleep.

~~~

He’s elbow-deep in soapy water when she calls for him. Despite the running water and the clinking dishes, his practiced ear could pick out her voice a mile away. He rushes back to her without taking the gloves off.

The blue glow of the TV is the only light in the room. He turns on a lamp before tending to her.

“What’s wrong, Cynthia?”

“What time is it?”

“Past supper time. Are you hungry?”

“No. It really hurts, Daddy.”

“Can you eat enough to take more medicine?”

“I don’t know.” She slides her legs against the couch. "It hurts a lot."

And Dad doesn’t know how to make it better. The discharge papers offered no help beyond over-the-counter analgesics. She’s curled up in a ball, sleep flaking from the corners of her eyes and mouth.

“Do I need to take you to A&E?”

“I don’t know. It feels like bad cramps.”

“What helps with that?”

“Bath. Hot water bottle. Masturbation, but I don’t much feel like that right now.”

Perhaps that would shock most people, but the Hills have always been very frank about the facts of life, ever since Cynthia was a baby. It was especially important to Mum, so her death only made transparency more meaningful to Dad and Cynthia.

“Where’s your hot water bottle?”

“It broke, remember? Ages ago.”

“I’ll buy you a new one in a few minutes, then. Will you try to eat? I don't want to leave until you're settled.”

She manages to get down one tapioca pudding, four more pills, and half a glass of water.

“Rest until I get home.” He grabs his keys and wallet.

“But... Dad, I’m bleeding all over everything.”

"How much? More than one pad's worth per hour?"

"Probably not." She stretches out her legs. "It's just been a lot of hours."

“It's fine, then, Cynthia. The couch will wipe clean.”

“Dad!”

“Well, I’m sorry, but is it really that urgent?”

“I can’t believe you would even ask that.”

“Fine. Go on and change. I’ll wait for you to get tucked back in.”

She slithers out of her blanket cocoon, grabbing her sweatpants from the rug. She wasn’t exaggerating about the problem. The last time Dad saw her covered in this much blood, she was still attached to an umbilical cord.  Dad gathers her blanket and heads for the laundry room as she trudges to the toilet.

“No tampons,” he reminds her.

He might as well have told her the world was ending.

“WHAT?!” Her footsteps stop. “What am I supposed to use, then?”

“The discharge instructions say you’re only to use pads.”

“But I don’t have any pads!”

“I asked you if you had enough, and you said you did.”

“And how would I know that? I haven’t had a period in three months!” She slumps dramatically against the wall. “Why didn’t you ask me yesterday, when I wasn’t such a wreck?”

“I didn’t know until I was signing the papers this morning.”

“What am I supposed to do?” she wails. “I’m going to ruin everything I own if I try to get into bed like this!”

“I’ll take care of it.” He tosses the blanket into the washing machine.

“But Dad…”

“You take a shower while I go to the shop.” He returns to the hall.  “Not a bath. A shower. Understand?”

She nods.

“Take a dark towel with you. If you get out of the shower before I’m home, wrap yourself up in the towel and lie down in your bed. I’ll bring everything to your room. Go on."

The shower starts. He waits to make sure he doesn't hear any thuds from the tub, unfolding the discharge instructions from his pocket while he waits.

"Are you dizzy or lightheaded?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Are any of the clots 'larger than the size of a golf ball'?" he calls through the door.

"Ew! No."

"Good. I'll be back in a few minutes. _Ek's lief vir jou_."

"Love you too, Daddy."

~~~

Dad’s been buying Cynthia’s supplies since her first period three years ago. Mum was still alive enough to celebrate menarche, but she was sick enough that Dad was the one to drop off pads and a change of clothing at Cynthia's school—not to mention cook up the bunny chow and trifle.

Tonight, however, is the first time he's felt truly lost in the aisle. She needs something different this time, and he vaguely remembers her mentioning an allergy to one brand, but he can't recall which one now that he's standing here. The packages all start to look the same, giving him blurry vision. But then he imagines Cynthia at home, alone and distraught because he hasn't brought her the basic necessities she needs.

Five minutes later, he tosses three bulging plastic bags into the boot of his car and speeds toward home.

She’s still in the shower when he returns. He bangs on the door.

“Are you all right, Cynthia?”

“ _Ja_ , Dad. The hot water feels good. Can you bring me some clean clothes?”

He fetches her a fresh pair of pajamas and her house shoes, leaving them on the toilet lid. He drops the bags on the counter, collects her bloody clothing, and leaves her to finish while he runs the washing machine.

Ten minutes later, the faucets squeak off. The curtain jingles across the rod.

“I put everything on the counter,” he says through the door. “Is that what you need?”

“ _Ja._ There's, like, six different types here. Why did you buy nappies, though?”

“They’re not nappies. They're what your mother wore after she had you. And... after her hysterectomy. I didn’t want you to be without anything you might need, and I didn't want to leave you alone again. Just leave whatever you don’t want unopened and I’ll take it back tomorrow.”

“No, it’s actually a good idea. Thanks, Dad.”

While she changes, he fills the hot water bottle and puts it under the blankets for her. A moment later, she throws herself face down across the foot of her bed, her hair dripping down the back of her pajamas. Dad sits next to her and towel dries her hair. When he's done combing it, she crawls under the covers.

"Ooh, you got me a fuzzy water bottle!" Her head pops back up from under the blankets. "Is it a dog?"

"A bear, I think."

"It's cute. Thanks, Dad."

“Do you want to watch anything? The Simpsons will be on soon.”

"No thanks." She pulls the blankets up to her chin. “Did you find out about...?”

He claps her leg under the cover. " _Ja. Hulle het verbrand je babatjie._ "

“Oh.” She pulls the blankets back over her head.

"Cynthia?"

He waits a moment before pulling the blanket down.

"I told them to stop," she sniffles.

"It was too late. They couldn't stop."

"I know. I wish I hadn't gotten up on the table. I'm so sad, Daddy. It's like... disequilibrium, but in my heart. I feel like I made the wrong choice."

"I'm sorry, Cynthia." He rubs her shoulder through the quilt. "For what it's worth, I'm so proud of you. I think you made the right choice. You have too much potential to throw it all away for a fetus."

"Is that how you and Mum felt when I came along? Like you were throwing away your potential for a fetus?"

"Of course not. We were happy to be expecting you. We were older than you are, though."

"Not by much. And you hadn't finished your master's degree."

“Cynthia—”

“Thank you for telling me what they did with the... remains. I feel better knowing. Now, would you tell me a story, Dad?”

“Of course, my little _bobotie._ A new one or an old one?”

“The one about how you met Mum.”

“All right. We were in uni together. We were walking past each other, me on my way to class and her on her way… I guess she was on her way home from class. She stumbled on a loose brick in the path, and her books flew onto the ground. I stopped to help her pick them up, and she gave me this radiant smile. No one else can smile that beautifully, except maybe you. When she smiled at me, it was the happiest I’d ever felt. I smiled back, and then I heard myself ask her, ‘Will you please have dinner with me?’”

“And she did,” Cynthia murmurs, knowing this story by heart.

“And she did,” he agrees. “I skipped class and took her to the only place I could afford: the cafeteria. And two years later, the newly married Mrs. Hill graduated with you in her belly.”

Cynthia sighs. “I miss her.”

"So do I. But she would be as proud of you as I am."

"Are you crazy? Mum would be horrified over this whole situation. I'm not ashamed, though. I would do most of it again if I invented time travel."

"When you invent time travel." He smiles at her.

"Well, I won't be inventing anything if I keep missing class."

"This was more important than class. You arranged to get notes from someone, though, right?"

" _Ja_ , Ellie."

"Ah. And what did your friend Ellie say about all of this?"

"I didn't tell her much. I said, 'I won't be in class tomorrow,' and she said, 'Why not?' and I said, 'I'm having an abortion and my dad wants me to rest for a few days afterward.' And then she was quiet for a minute, like she was surprised, and then she blurted out, 'When did you find time to fall pregnant? I didn't think your dad let you go to the toilet by yourself.' Except now that I think about it, I think she said 'bathroom' instead of 'toilet.' Anyway, I didn't tell her how or when I got pregnant, obviously. She felt bad for me, I think. She said she'd go over the lesson privately with me on Monday during our break between classes. I'm really glad, because we're studying ayahuasca use in South American culture, and I've been really curious about it ever since Professor Smith told us about..."

Dad closes his eyes and lets her ramble. Next year, she’ll move to Oxford to start her PhD, and everything will change. He’s thought about selling the house and moving closer to her, or driving her to and from classes each day. He would gladly spend 3 hours in the car each day, sitting around at a coffee shop while he waits to drive her home.

Truthfully, the only reason he dragged Cynthia to hospital at 12 weeks instead of 5 was because the pregnancy's timing seemed so serendipitous. After all, Cynthia would hardly be able to go off to Oxford on her own with a newborn in tow. Babies require a lot of help.

But babies will never learn to walk if they're always carried. He's never minded letting Cynthia fall on her bum if it teaches her a lesson. The trouble is, his entire identity for the past 16 years has been Dad, the guy who picks her up and dusts her off. He isn't sure what kind of person will be left when she doesn't need to be picked up anymore. 

He lies down next to her, him on top of the quilt and her burrowed underneath it. "Are you angry with me?"

"For what?"

"For forcing you to terminate your pregnancy."

"No, Daddy." She rubs her fingers over his scruff, a childhood habit she still hasn't outgrown. "I'm heartbroken right now, but I know you're right. Besides, once I went back there, they asked me if I was sure I wanted to abort. I thought about it for a moment and said yes, and then I went into the operating room and hopped onto the table. It was my decision."

He hugs her, wrapping the quilt tightly around her. "I made the right call as your dad, then?"

She yawns. " _Ja,_ of course, Daddy."

Cynthia will be grown soon, and then he'll have to figure out who he is as a person. But for now, Cynthia still needs him to do her laundry and and buy her pads and tell her bedtime stories. She still needs her dad to take care of her and defend her from mean strangers.

"How are you feeling?" he asks after she's been quiet a few minutes.

"Better." She yawns again. "Thanks for everything, Daddy."

"Of course,  _bobotie._ I would do anything for you."

Her even breathing tells him she's already half unconscious. He rises from the bed.

“Good night, _my_ _babatjie._ ” He kisses her forehead. “Your daddy loves you very much.”


End file.
